


Imagine: Castiel comforting you after a bad hunt.

by webcricket



Series: Castiel Imagines [27]
Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 19:53:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13864848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket





	Imagine: Castiel comforting you after a bad hunt.

A hollow knocking echoed at the door - your name murmured questioningly in a rumbling tenor from the hall beyond.

“No one’s home,” voice cracking dryly, you buried your flushed and tear-stained face into the pillow, hugging it tighter, folding into a fetal position. After the last hunt nearly cost human lives because of your misstep, you didn’t want to see or talk to anyone. You saw your mistake reflected clear as day in the countenance of anyone you laid eyes on, and nothing they could say or do made it any less agonizing. You wanted nothing more than to wallow in the misery of self-loathing in the safety and comfort of your bed until you summoned the strength to again face the world.

Castiel opened the door and set one foot over the threshold to peer in, squinting to focus in the dark of the room, eyes settling on your curled figure upon the bed. He eased the door open further, dropping his head to one side quizzically, “Y/N, that doesn’t make sense. I can clearly see and hear that you’re in here.”

“Cas, it means I want to be left alone,” you muttered into the comforter, “just tell Sam and Dean I don’t feel like going out tonight. I’m tired.” You huffed a weary sigh, rolling to your other side, willing yourself the ability to dissolve into thin air.

Castiel stood in silent consideration of your response – intense cobalt gaze sparkling in the dim light emanating from the hall. Anyone save the angel would have taken the hint. The door creaked shut.

Breath held in anticipation of departing footsteps to confirm your renewed solitude, your ears instead pricked curiously at the unexpected rub of fabric and shuffle of feet.

The angel shrugged out of his trench coat, hanging it on on the hook beside your door. Heels squeaking softly on the floor, he kicked off his shoes, bending over to pick them up and carefully line them up side by side beneath the coat.

You continued to listen intently, not hearing his quiet approach over the sniffle of your nose, but sensing his warmly looming presence beside the bed.

Before you could question his actions, he clambered up next to you, easing a strong arm around your waist and drawing you firmly to his chest.

“Cas, what are you doing?” Your throat squeaked, body tensing, taken completely off guard.

“I believe it’s called spooning and meant to offer comfort,” he readjusted, tucking his knees behind yours, sliding his palm down your arm to clasp your fingers within his, “you appear to be in distress and I find it difficult to see you suffering.” He wavered, tone muffled by the uncertainty of his positioning, “Is this, correct?”

“It’s…,” you hesitated, relaxing from the initial shock of his embrace, finding solace in the heat of his taut frame softening against yours and the gentle rhythmic caress of his breath on the back of your neck, “…yes, it’s correct.”

“Good, I’m glad,” he tenderly squeezed your hand.

“Thank you Cas,” you intertwined your fingers through his, allowing your eyes to flutter shut with a soft sigh.

He nuzzled his chin into your hair, using his grace to mollify your anxiety and soothe you to sleep, “Rest now Y/N, tomorrow is new day and we will face it together.”


End file.
